Photographic Memory
by Tinkerellabelle
Summary: You don't have to hurt all the time. Remembering is enough.


Note: Angst, angst, lovely angst. I'm not so sure how great this story is, but I could feel the vicious hounds of writer's block snapping at my heels, so I figure I'd better upload something fast. Angsty Xander is not exactly a barrel of laughs, though, and I'm sort of afraid he's out of character. But whatever. Oh, yeah, and I know there's an "Angel" episode that explains what Willow and Xander and everybody do after Sunnydale blows up, but I have not seen it. So I'm sorry if this is at all inaccurate. Feedback is appreciated!

Disclaimer: Not mine. Duh.

Six months after Sunnydale, on a Monday, he moves into a new apartment. It's smaller than his old one, and maybe a tiny bit on the roachy side, but it doesn't bother him too much. Piece of cake for someone who used to live on a hellmouth. In a basement on a hellmouth, no less. Whatever. It's okay. It's just him there anyway.

The Thursday after moving day, he gets a new job. Finally. It was tough, with the whole Patchy the Pirate look, finding a company that didn't consider him a liability. But he'll be okay, now that somebody's finally decided to give him a second chance. That's all he ever really needed.

After work he comes home and microwaves dinner, then eats it while watching Seinfeld. He almost laughs at the cliché, but can't quite bring himself too. It's really not that funny.

Anya would have hated this program, he thinks suddenly. A show about nothing. How impractical. It doesn't surprise him, really, that she's just popped into his head. She does it all the time. Although lately it seems like his thoughts have been elsewhere. He's almost afraid he's getting over her. It's a relief, when she just shows up like this.

He forgets what she looks like sometimes.

…Which is actually kind of funny. Not funny haha, of course, but funny in a freakish, gut-wrenchingly painful way.

But, yeah, anyway, it's freakishly and painfully funny because he can remember everything else. Every single thing. Her laugh. Her scent. The stupid, rude, unthinking, unbearably true things she used to say – all of it. At least he thinks he does. It's hard to be sure sometimes, though, cuz how are you supposed to know you remember something if you've forgotten it? Oh, great, let's just add a couple of trigonometry problems into the mix because his life's not confusing enough.

On Friday he does the Dance of Capitalism in his apartment. He's pretty sure he remembers all the moves. That's good. Although halfway through, his lack of peripheral vision causes him to trip over a footstool and knock a over a lamp. This time he laughs. Good. Haha funny is still hanging in there.

It's probably just this stupid eye patch. Yeah, cuz the eye Caleb played "Now You See It," with was probably the remembering eye. You know, the one that sees stuff and keeps it stored away. Oh, but no, that doesn't work. He still remembers Buffy's mom and Spike and Jonathan. He sees their faces all the time. And, needless to say, the relationships he'd shared with them had been just a teensy bit less intimate. Dammit. It had been a good theory.

_No._ He imagines her saying. _It was a terrible, idiotic theory. Your theory-developing skills are sub-par at best. You should find a better use for your time. Perhaps crochet?_ Yes, this is what she would have said. He can hear her, every lilt of her voice, every emphasis on every word.

And then she would have kissed him, maybe. Or he would have kissed her, but it doesn't matter. Because he feels it here, now. He tastes her. This is how it used to be, he's sure of it. So why can't he see her?

He goes to see Willow on Saturday night; it's his day off after all. They sit on her couch for an hour, not speaking. It's nice, he thinks, just being with her for a while. But she doesn't feel that way, he knows. She's worried. Every once in a while she'll bait him, set him up for easy wisecracks. He's quiet, though. He has been for a long time.

"Xander." She says at last, forcing him to look at her. "You can quit with the quiet mourning thing now. You can't do this to yourself, just because you miss her."

"Who?" He keeps eye contact. He knows he's acting like a jerk, but somehow he just can't bring himself to care.

"Anya." She states calmly, unfazed.

He draws back a little, stung. He's just realized, he's kind of forgotten what her name sounds like, too.

"Don't say her name, Will."

"Anya." She says again, and she's not trying to be cruel, he knows, but he hates her anyway, for just a second. "Anya, Anya, Anya."

"Stop it, Willow." Every syllable is like a bomb going off in his head.

"Anya, Anya, Anya, Anya, An­–"

"Tara!" He shouts over her. "Tara, Tara, Tara!" Now it's her turn to look stung.

"You have to get used to it, Xander." She says after a long pause, a little angrily. She's got her Resolved Face on. "You can't keep your feelings bottled up."

"Oh, yeah?" He snaps, because he can't really think of a better response.

"Yeah." She's calmer now. "Cuz otherwise, they might erupt. Like in the scary, homicidal, apocalypsey sense." Her eyes never leave his face. "You don't have to hurt all the time. Remembering is enough."

He feels guilty now, and kind of scared, and doesn't really know what else to say. And now he feels kind of hot and smothered. It's getting hard to breathe. So he leaves her sitting there, her Resolved Face still firmly in place, and he runs.

He runs all the way home ­– not really home, though, cuz home is just a big crater now ­– faster than he's ever run from any demon. His feet fall into a steady rhythm, and he gasps with every step, "_An-ya, An-ya, An-ya_," tasting it, memorizing it. This is what her name sounds like. He remembers. He can feel her next to him, matching his stride; he can hear her chattering in his ear. He _remembers._ He turns his head, craning his neck, straining his good eye…

He can't see her. He can't remember. It'll be okay, he knows, if he just remembers. Maybe she'll be here with him. Maybe she'll never have died in the first place. He doesn't know. Maybe it'll just stop hurting. Maybe the stitch he's just developed in his side will go away. Maybe he'll be able to breathe. If he can just picture her face. Maybe nothing will happen, but then at least he'll know, won't he? And that has to be better than this. _He just has to remember._

He reaches the apartment, flings the door wide open, and tears to his bedroom. He's probably making an awful racket, but who cares?

_It's just him there anyway._

Hot tears, he realizes, are pouring down his cheeks, scalding his face. She'd asked him to explain it once. Death. And he hadn't because he'd been irritated with her.

…_The stupid, rude, unbearably true things she **used** to say._

Or maybe he'd never understood it either.

He slams into his dresser and yanks the top drawer onto the floor, shuffling frantically, one handed, through socks and underwear. At last he finds it and holds it up to the light. It's a while before his eye can focus, the room is spinning so badly. Finally, he can see again.

…_A second chance. That's all he ever really needed._

It's a terrible picture, really. Just a wallet-sized photo Dawn took one afternoon in the park. He leans against an oak tree. Anya peeks out from behind it, a slight smile playing across her face, her hair full of twigs. It's the only picture he has, all the others were destroyed back in Sunnydale. He can't see her face very clearly. It doesn't really look like her anyway. But it is and that's enough.

_Oh, yeah. _He remembers now.

She'd been beautiful.

On Sunday, he goes home. Really home. Back to the old Sunnydale crater. He stands right on the edge, where the "Welcome!" sign used to be, even though he knows it's awfully dangerous, and he thinks of Anya. He's glad she got her second chance.

Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and takes out the picture, poised to fling it into the gaping hole. He actually almost does it. It would mean a lot, probably, though he's not sure to whom. But there's no telling when he might need it again, you know? It's so easy to forget. He slides it back into his pocket.

And stares into the void for a little while longer.


End file.
